


a history of wall pinning

by bitterglitter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Crowley has never been thirstier, Eventual Smut, M/M, Missing Scene, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, an actual quote that also describes this story, anthony j crowley has been alive for 6000 slutty slutty years, author has no knowledge of the bible and limited knowledge of history but here we are, gratuitous longing, historical setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterglitter/pseuds/bitterglitter
Summary: 5 times Crowley pins Aziraphale to a wall + 1 time Aziraphale pins Crowley~~~Suddenly, Crowley realizes, they seem to have a history ending up like this.





	1. followed by an angel

**3500, BCE - Mesopotamia**

The thing about following a Demon is that it’s very hard to do so without being noticed. 

Obviously it is hard for Humans, mostly because compared to Angels and Demons everything is hard for Humans. If someone is a Demon then they typically go to great lengths to hide it in the presence of Humanity. Which doesn’t seem very Demon-like on the surface, but it does avoid a mountain of paperwork and that itself is much like a Demon. However, Humans aren’t the only ones who are terrible at following Demons, Angels fall onto the list as well. Even the most cunning Demons have a hard time following other Demons around unnoticed. 

It is theorized to be some after effect of Falling. An extra dash of paranoia. The need to always be looking over your shoulder. Or, some say, it could just be that God sent them an extra dash of perception, a small sorry for the big fuck-you that came with Falling. That one, Crawley feels, is the most unlikely of the bunch. 

Right now, Crawley is a Demon that is being followed. He has been for the past few streets he’s walked down and it’s just starting to get slightly annoying. 

Whoever is following him isn’t another Demon, that much Crawley can tell. The familiar stench of Hell hasn’t filled up the crowded marketplace and it isn’t a Human, not quite clumsy enough for one of those. No, whoever it is is good enough to notice Crawley lurking in the shadows but tactless enough to not hide their presence all too well. 

So, an Angel. 

Which isn’t great all things considering. Honestly, Crawley wishes it would be a Human, at least they’re easy to deal with. Not much a quick demonic miracle couldn’t fix if they had noticed anything particularly demon-y about him. In fact, most Humans don’t even care to notice yet or at least if they do notice they don’t bother to care much. 

Crawley wonders how long that little trait of Humanity will last. 

No matter Angel, Demon, or Human, Crawley knows he’s good at slipping away so he isn’t particularly worried just yet. Must be a perk of having been a snake. Still technically a snake. Only occasionally, on very warm days. 

The further you go into the market the more jam-packed it becomes. Even in the midst of the densest area, it doesn’t hold a candle to Hell, but Crawley still shudders with each brush of shoulders he’s forced to endure. Honestly, Humanity isn’t that big yet how come they can’t spread out a bit more? But Crawley continues on, feeling the Angelic presence hot on his heels. 

He isn’t particularly feeling like taking a trip back to Hell today. He’s had this body for five hundred years and he isn’t prepared to give it up now, must be some sort of record by now. Demons aren’t well known for keeping their corporations. 

Crawley pulls his hood a little higher to hide his face and waits until the Angelic presence is just feet away before turning a sharp right and then immediately ducking into an empty alleyway. His back is pressed against a hot stone wall, molding itself into the shadow, and he waits. He doesn’t have to wait long. 

The closer an Angel gets the more you can feel it. Grace has a certain feeling that can only truly be felt by those who have had it taken away. It’s something you can sense with a twinge of longing. An emptiness that calls to you. 

The Angel, face also hidden by their white hood, stops right before the ally and looks around. 

It would be easy to let the Angel pass. To wait a few minutes before rejoining the crowd and going on his way. But Crawley does not do easy and honestly, he’s in the mood for a quick confrontation. If nothing else, to at least find out why an agent of Heaven is stalking him specifically. As if he hasn’t been committing anything other than small temptations here and there, he’s even gotten a complaint from head office! 

So, Crawley gives in to his desire to instigate. A natural one if you were to ask any other Demon. A symptom of the heat and general annoyance at the week if you ask Crawley. 

The Angels turns, just to glance down the alleyway, and Crawley pounces. The element of surprise is a wonderful thing if you are the one wielding it, it makes it easy to grab hold of the Angel’s robe and push him back into the opposite wall. One hand grabs at the Angel’s shoulder shoving him back so hard the Angel starts to bounce off the wall forward, but Crawley brings his other hand to press against the Angel’s neck, trapping him. Crawley isn’t holding hard enough to hurt by itself, but enough to be a warning. He keeps enough distance between their bodies to be safe, never know if they’re hiding a Celestial sword and he’s not sure if he could come back from something like that. Crawley’s lips pull back into a snarl, ready to demand to know why he’s being followed when he pauses. 

“Angel?” Is the first thing that comes to mind, which is why it’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth. Which, duh, of course it’s an Angel, but that isn’t what surprises him. His snarl turns into a soft frown and his grip relaxes unconsciously. 

It’s  _ that _ Angel. The same Angel from the Wall of Eden five hundred years ago. The Angel that gave up his flaming sword to Humanity and shielded Crawley from the first rain in creation. The Angel that Crawley had caught himself wondering about every so often since their first meeting. Most often when coming upon other Angels down on Earth completing Heavenly tasks, Crawley rediscovers that they’re pricks the lot of them. All except this one. 

The Angel that Crawley thought he would never see again. 

“ _ Crawley? _ ” For his credit, the Angel, who had never actually given his name, looks just as confused as Crawley feels. Which is good, that means that he wasn’t following Crawley because it was Crawley. “What are you doing here?” 

“Being followed by an Angel. You?” 

“Ah. Following… you apparently.” The look the Angel gives him is not so much sheepish, but much closer to guilty than an Angel had ever looked at a Demon in the history of ever. It’s all very jarring. “Didn’t realize- well, I was passing through and thought I sensed something... demonic. So I took it upon myself to investigate and- oh-.” He gestures between the two of them. 

Oh. Crawley is still holding him against the wall. 

Quickly he releases his hold on the Angel’s robe and neck and takes a big step back, putting a healthy distance between the two of them as if standing too close would burn him. Perhaps it would. This Angel hasn’t shown any ill intent yet, and Angels aren’t known to lie, but Demons aren’t known to trust. One good meeting between the two of them doesn’t mean much. 

(This is a lie. Perhaps the biggest lie Crawley has ever told. He will refuse to admit it for a thousand years.)

“Thank you.” The Angel nods at him, pressing his lips into a thin line and straightening out his sleeves. 

“Ew, don’t say that.” Crawley can feel his nose scrunch up and he practically flinches back at the words. Dramatics are in his blood. Well, his creation. “Demon, remember?” 

“Of course. Hard to forget.” For a moment it feels like The Angel is staring at his serpent eyes, but then he quickly looks out towards the crowd. Maybe he isn’t that different from the other Angels. The thought comes up unwanted and Crawley does his best to ignore it. “So what are you doing here? Besides ducking into dark alleys.” 

“I hardly call this dark.” Crawley snorts. The midday sun pounds overhead and if Crawley could sweat he’d be drenched under his dark robes. “If you must know I’m just making a stop before heading to Nekhen. Heard they just made up a new metal,  _ bronze.  _ Thought I’d see what all the chatter was about.” 

He holds up his wrist as if to prove it, not sure why he does it before thinking about it, and shows off a new bracelet he had gotten yesterday. It was pure luck that it was shaped like a coiling snake, something about the universe reinforcing his inherent aesthetic. Why not go with it? 

This is another lie. Most of his time has been spent in this area, moving from city to city but always circling the same place. The Garden of Eden may no longer physically stand, but something about the area still pulls Crawley in close. He can’t seem to bare leaving it.

“ _ Oh,  _ I do see the appeal.” The Angel’s eyes widen slightly and the thin press of his lips loosens into an almost-smile as he admires Crawley’s jewelry. The memory of a similar, wide smile at Eden comes bubbling to the surface and Crawley lowers his hand as he pushes the thought back down. At least now the Angel looks more relaxed when he meets Crawley’s eyes once again. “I wasn’t aware D- you were interested in the latest fashion trends.” 

“Hardly call it a trend.” Crawley shrugs with forced indifference. Something under his skin itches to both step closer to the Angel and get as far away as possible and Crawley does  _ not  _ have time to unpack all of that. “What about you? Off to perform a divine miracle or whatever it is your lot do?” 

“Ah, uh, yes, I am.” The Angel’s smile suddenly gets a little too big and Crawley has no idea what to make of it. “Miracles and the like, just what Angels do. You know how it is – oh, sorry. I suppose- well I meant- I didn’t-”

Crawley wonders how long he’ll go on stuttering for if Crawley lets him. In all honesty, he’s not offended like the Angel’s borderline panicked face might suggest he is. One doesn’t Fall without quickly getting a thick skin. And, unlike other  _ celestial beings,  _ there was no underlying malicious in his statement. Only a sort of soft honestly Crawley isn’t sure he’s ever seen. Being in Hell tends to devoid you of such treatment. 

This is fascinating, though. Watching this Angel stutter and flail while trying to apologize for sticking his foot rather far in his mouth. An Angel apologizing to a Demon of all things. It’s probably fair to say the universe has never seen such an event.

A coiling feeling in Crawley’s stomach lets go as he sees that, no, the Angel from Eden hasn’t changed much. They could still be there, on the Wall for how much it isn’t different. An honest smile, something he hasn’t felt in at least a decade, graces Crawley’s face as he watches. 

If there’s one thing besides miracles that Heaven is good at, it’s propaganda. Hell is, and if Hell is good at something then Heaven has to be too just out of spite. It isn’t something that Crawley has experienced for himself, but he’s seen the effects of it throughout the few interactions he’s had with Angels, the rumors he’s heard about Demons. Honestly, who even started the one about Demons not being able to feel love? Sure, Crawley is fairly certain he hasn’t, but that doesn’t mean he  _ can’t.  _

Almost every Angel that Crawley has come in contact with has repeated an almost script of Holier-than-thou lines about Heaven and Hell and Good and Evil. The Great Plan. God’s love. Hell’s inevitable failure. The inherent corruption of Demons. How God intends the Universe to work.

Ineffable is something he’s only heard once. 

Crawley is still smiling and the Angel is still stuttering and they both seem to realize this at the same time. They look at each other in the eyes and both flinch back at the same time, quiet overtaking the space between them as they both frown. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Crawley feels the need to reassure him even though the moment for doing so has long passed. Luckily the Angel’s expression brightens and they avoid making the whole thing awkward. 

“So, Nekhen you said? Unfortunately, I’m not headed the same way.” 

Unfortunately?  _ Unfortunately?  _ What does that  _ mean _ ? Is he just being polite? That is how you be polite, right? This is something that you say to someone else to be polite and maybe end a conversation. Crawley is pretty sure of that. Kind of sure. He thinks. He thinks he thinks that that’s right because no other meaning of what the Angel said made sense and of course it was him being polite he’s an  _ Angel  _ they have to be polite and nice, but not to Demons, but this Angel doesn’t treat him like any of the other Angels so maybe he thinks that he has to be polite to Crawley? 

Right?

“Unfortunate.” Crawley agrees because he has stopped being able to think of other words and it seems like the right thing to do. 

A Demon doing the right thing to do. This really is Eden all over again. Must be why he feels a twisting in his stomach and his whole body heat up just lightly. Only explanation, going completely against his nature. 

“Probably for the best.” Crawley’s mouth continues without his head’s permission. “Hopping over for a temptation. Work and all that.” 

The Angel’s smile wavers at that and turns from a familiar smile to the same one that shopkeepers give him when he slinks in at early hours in the morning to see what they’re selling before most people get up. The sun is still hot and beating but Crawley feels as if he’s been dunked in cold water. Perhaps Holy Water with how these feelings clash. 

“Oh. Yes, of course, that makes sense.” The Angel’s tone is still friendly, which is  _ something  _ at least. “Heaven has been working me quite hard recently, I can only imagine that… your side has you doing the same. I suppose one should say best of luck, but, well, you know.” 

“Yes of course.” Crawley sort of wishes the ground would swallow him up. Not back to Hell, mind you. Just a few feet in the dirt. Maybe for half a decade, then it should be safe to come back out. “If- If you’re staying here long, I would recommend stopping at the shop just down the street on the corner. Best wine this side of the Euphrates.” 

The Angel’s smile isn’t as friendly as it once was, but something about it tells Crawley that he may have made up for the temptation talk. He glances the way Crawley directed before nodding and clasping his hands together. “I may take your advice on that. I haven’t been to Nekhen in quite some time so I don’t have anywhere to recommend to you, but I appreciate it all the same.” 

Is this where Crawley is supposed to leave? The Angel? He isn’t sure. There wasn’t a what to do portion during Hell’s orientation on what to do after having slammed a friendly Angel against the wall and then having a decent conversation with them. 

“Well, I suppose you can get back to your miracles and all that. I’m the only Demon ‘round here at the moment so not much need to be following anyone around. I should be off. Temptation and all that.” Crawley takes a hesitant step back towards the market, not turning away from the Angel. He tries but only his hips seem to move, swaying slightly in the wind. “Maybe I’ll see you around again?” 

The Angel glances down, too fast for Crawley to tell where, and then back up at him. His fingers are drumming against each other and the ending of this whole exchange is driving Crawley mad. “ _ Maybe _ .” 

It’s said in a very specific tone, one that would take Crawley many nights of reflection to decide upon. That specific maybe is said in the way that one says that if they mean that it is conceivably possible with all the random chance in the universe, but in itself very unlikely. In the way that someone says maybe to a party invitation when they know that they will hold off on giving a definite answer because they know that night even if they said yes, they’ll call to cancel and spend the night watching Netflix. Not that Netflix is a thing yet, that is a comparison that will come in about six thousand years. This “maybe” is not said in the way that one gives when they mean no, not at all, never but are too polite to say it outright.

In this exact moment, though, Crawley isn’t sure how to take it besides at face value. 

Suddenly a thought occurs to him. “Even if we don’t see each other, I find it hardly fair that you know my name, but you’ve never given me yours.” 

The Angel’s eyes widen as if just realizing he had skipped a very crucial step of introductions. Hard to blame him. Crawley has been the one having to think of him with no name, yet he only thinks to ask for it now. 

“Ah, yes, so sorry. Completely forgot about that.” The Angel’s cheeks turn a dusty shade of pink before he clears his throat and holds out his hand. “My name is Aziraphale.” 

A handshake. Yes, Crawley had seen the Humans doing that recently on introductions. He’s never actually participated in the ritual, either the people he’s talked to haven’t caught onto the fad or he’s just fine with coming off as rude. It’s an odd feeling when he takes the Angel – Aziraphale’s hand, but he doesn’t burst into flames or anything so it isn’t that bad. Crawley tests out the name on his tongue, “Aziraphale.” 

Quickly he pulls back his hand as soon as the shake is done and promptly ignores the tingle in his fingertips. 

“Well,  _ Aziraphale _ , I’d best be off.” Without waiting for a reply, because it is in the fine print of a Demon’s job description that they should try to be rude bastards whenever possible, he offers once last small smile before turning around, finally, and walking back into the crowd. It isn’t until he’s deep in that he can no longer feel Aziraphale watching him walk away. 

What an odd day, Crawley can’t help but think. He had honestly believed he would never see Aziraphale again. Or learn his name, for that matter. Names are powerful. It was stupid enough for Crawley to give his out so willingly. Besides, he couldn’t imagine Heaven letting someone like Aziraphale stay on Earth, someone who could give up Heavenly items just to  _ help  _ someone. Angels help people sure, but not like that.

Crawley doesn’t let himself dwell on it in the moment. He has a trip to Nekhen to get started after all. Not for temptation, no, that was a lie. He is a Demon after all. His real reason is rather un-Demon like, so he can’t risk muttering it out loud as if Hell might overhear. Who knows. Maybe they can. 

No, instead he’s heading out to see something the people are calling a zoo, interested in seeing the different animals that are rumored to be there. Not like Aziraphale, or anyone else for that matter, needs to know that. 

Part of him hopes as he walks away that he will see Aziraphale again. After Nekhen's zoo, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my tumblr](https://gayglitterqueen.tumblr.com/)


	2. an angel and a demon walk out of a bar

**41 AD, Rome**

The Demon now known as Crowley has spent the last decade in a bad mood. A horrible mood really. The worst mood he has been in since was forced to swan-dive into a pool of sulfur. 

Though, losing any shred of hope you had in any sort of Divine Plan tends to do that to a person. Even the most occult of being has a hard time with that, though most Demons claim to have gotten past it in the first few hundred years of Earth. Crowley is inclined to believe them, only because he’s not quite sure their heads could handle thinking about something like that for so long. 

Falling was the breaking point for most if not all Demons, Crowley seems to have been the exception. It is hard to blame him, honestly. The whole reason he was thrown out on Heaven’s doorstep was an abundance of curiosity, that sort of thing didn’t fizzle out while the rest of him burned. 

In fact, all it seemed to do was fuel it. 

So while he didn’t hold any stock to a Great Plan anymore, there was a bit of him that couldn’t help but hope that it was indeed true. Somewhat comforting on dark nights when there was nothing to do but think. Now? Not so much. 

Jesus had been the last straw. Break the camel’s back as they say. 

As the cross rose, Crowley could no longer see a hint of a Great Plan anywhere. So instead of turning to old, hidden comforts, he turned where most humans turned. 

An extraordinary amount of alcohol. 

But now a decade of living in a rather fuzzy mental state due to copious amounts of drinking are seeming to come to an end. Most days were started with heading to a random tavern and ordering whatever they had on tap that was even remotely considered drinkable. He was becoming a favorite with owners; never making a ruckus like the other drunks and always spending far too much for any sane man. He is not a man, though, and continued to do so daily without thought. 

And then Aziraphale shows up. 

Which, of course, this is how it would happen. Who else to drag him out of this half-mourning half-existential funk but Aziraphale? Poetic in its own, horrible right. 

This is the closest their by-chance meetings have ever coincided, only eight years. Not even a full decade. It took over five hundred years to see each other again after their first meeting, and here Crowley gets to see him after only eight. Funny how the world works sometimes. 

Perhaps, a part of him deep down whispers, it isn’t just random chance that brings Aziraphale here on this exact day. 

But that sort of thinking will drive Crowley right back into the bar he just came from and honestly getting oysters with Aziraphale sounds like a much better idea. The best idea. The bestest idea anyone has ever had ever. Is bestest a word? He’s not sure. Perhaps he still has a bit of booze in his system, it has been a while since he’s been anywhere near stone-cold sober. 

Aziraphale hardly seems to notice, or if he has he has yet to say anything about it. If nothing else Aziraphale is an annoyingly polite bastard, which makes it all the harder to tell what he’s actually thinking vs what he is or is not saying. Crowley doesn’t like much about Demons, but he finds he prefers their brand of bluntness over social conventions of niceties. 

Or maybe Crowley is just extra moody today. That would make a lot more sense. 

Walking the crowded Roman streets it’s easy to blend in, to a casual observer the two of them must look like a pair of friends out for the day. Like any other Roman. Well, Aziraphale looks like any other Roman. Crowley knows his outfit is a bit… peculiar. Comes with the territory when you’re not bothered to care picking out what you’re wearing, summoning whatever comes to mind. The occult equivalent to picking up the cleanest laundry you can find on the floor, not bothering to check if it matches or has even been in style in the last one hundred years. 

So, Crowley does stick out a bit. Perhaps the silver wreath on his head was a bit much, but he can’t be bothered to care. A quick thought and no one is really looking their way anyway. 

“Been in Rome long then, huh?” They’ve hardly left the tavern and already Crowley is itching to continue their conversation. Usually, he’s fine with a prolonged quiet, especially around other people, but right now every moment that isn’t spent actually acknowledging each other feels like a moment wasted. “Enough to get to know the restaurants, at least.” 

“Hm, Rome is a favorite stop of mine. Hard not to be with how quick it seems to be growing.” Aziraphale’s brows furrowed slightly as if disconcerted by the idea, but when he looks at Crowley he’s all smiles again. “I was popping in for a quick miracle, but it is so easy to get sidetracked here.”

“Lucky you ran into me then.” If he is in for a quick miracle, then getting even further sidetracked by a Demon must be the last thing on his to-do list. Crowley grins back. It’s not as soft as Aziraphale’s smile, Crowley hasn’t managed a smile like that in quite some time, instead, it’s all teeth and a hint of danger. It’s the same grin he gives humans who stare a bit too long. 

Aziraphale doesn’t even blink at it. “Lucky indeed.” 

Crowley’s grin fades into something he’s gotten more accustomed to in the past decade, far more neutral and guarded. He’s reluctant to admit it, but he feels more off-footed than he has in a while. Not the reaction he was expecting. Well, he can work with it. Or, at the very least, get a decent lunch out of it. (Not that he likes eating, but it’s something to do.)

“So, you’ve honestly never tried an oyster?” They turn the corner and Aziraphale takes the opportunity to shoot him a disbelieving look. 

“Why would I lie about that?” Crowley counters, thinking it an odd thing to stretch the truth about. “Never really seen the appeal, honestly. S’not like I eat that much anyway. Once or twice a decade maybe.” 

Aziraphale pauses in the middle of the street and Crowley immediately finds himself stopping as well. Busy people brush by them as if they aren’t there. Reality bends easily with just a thought, but it wasn’t Crowley’s that clear the way for them. Crowley doesn’t know what to make of the bubble of silence that has surrounded them in an otherwise busy street. 

There’s a  _ look _ Aziraphale is giving him. Aziraphale has given him many looks over the years; happy, surprised, disbelief, outrage, suspicion just to name a few. But this is a look, accompanied by a certain twinkle in his eyes and a twist of his mouth, that Crowley is entirely unfamiliar with. It’s a sort of look that is making the summer sun feel a tad too hot and the more snake-like of his instincts scream at him to duck into the darkest place he can find and hide. Curl in on himself so he can’t be seen and wait for a better time to come out. 

“I didn’t realize – well, I suppose that makes sense,” Aziraphale mutters and it’s only through divine, or a little demonic, intervention that Crowley hears him. He clears his throat and speaks louder, “if you’d rather not go get something to eat, I won’t be offended.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind–”  _ if it’s with you  _ “–since it’s been a while since my last meal. Suppose I should get reacquainted with whatever it is people are eating nowadays. Keep up with Humanity and all.” 

And herein lies why it had to be Aziraphale to drag him out of his funk. On any other occasion, Crowley would have turned down the invitation to dine with someone else, even Lucifer himself. It’s just not his scene, sleep is a much more preferable human activity among others. The last time Crowley had actually eaten anything had to have been two hundred years ago when he had traveled with a group of men playing music throughout the outskirts of Greece and he had one of the prettier of the men feed him sweet berries as they sang throughout the night. Crowley had licked the fruit from his fingers and let the juices run down his chin, it had been a  _ very  _ interesting night and not just because of the unique musical choices that had been made once the men had let the alcohol settle into their bones. 

That had been on a whim and it had only been a small handful of berries. That is completely different than sitting across from, or Satan forbid  _ next to _ , someone and eating an actual meal. 

Sharing food around a campfire of strangers is intimate in its own right, but also comfortably anonymous. Crowley had been able to leave in the early morning hours when he got bored and never looked back. One couldn’t just leave a table whenever they wanted, at least not if they gave a damn of what the person they were dining with thought of them. 

And Crowley does care what Aziraphale thinks of him, terribly so. 

It’s a topic that just won’t seem to leave his mind. Why Aziraphale talks to him so when they are an Angel and Demon. Does Aziraphale actually enjoy his company? (Of course, one part of him reasons, why else would he invite you out? Politeness, a need to help the corrupted, because he thinks it’s funny that you obviously do care, another, worse part of him hisses.) Would there be a day when he does something so Demonic that Aziraphale would actually start treating him like one? 

Leaving in the middle of dinner doesn’t seem like that’s a big enough offense to cause such a reaction, but Crowley has just enough Demon in him that he wears paranoia like an old winter coat, slipping it on when the weather changes. 

Anyone else and Crowley would do as he pleases without care. But there is a deeply engraved need for Aziraphale – to like him, enjoy his company, keep spending time with him – that he chooses every interaction with a sort of care he’s never felt before. 

It wasn’t until after Noah that he realized he was doing it at all. Some days he wishes he could go back to the ignorant bliss he once had. 

So, anyone else who had offered him a way out of his depression would have gotten a loud laugh to the face. Aziraphale gets a short hiss and then a resounding yes. Crowley is not yet comfortable in this knowledge, but he had accepted it, which is one of the steps toward being a healthy person, right? It’s somewhere in there. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale breaths and not even God Herself could figure out how he managed to make one word sound so delighted. 

Crowley is about to ask how far they are from the restaurant (you’d think living here for eight years would give him a better feel for the city) as the crowds are closing in on him and he’d rather get out of the open when Aziraphale’s expression falls. Confusion at first, brows twisted together and lips pursed as if on the edge of asking a question. His eyes flicker around them before finally widening and settling on an emotion – panic. 

Nothing has to be said, just the look in Aziraphale’s eyes set’s Crowley off. He doesn’t jump into any sort of action, never been the sort for that, but instead twists his body just enough to be able to scan the crowd. To anyone else, he would look like a man who walked with just a bit too much flair, open and inviting in his stance. The coil in his muscles says otherwise. 

The smell hits him before he can get any sort of view. Hell has always had its certain brand of scent, something completely indescribable. How lava smells the moment you plunge in. A sterilized room you’re locked in with a manic. The gleam in someone’s eyes right before they lunge for your throat. 

This is the smell that is quietly drifting through the street. 

A Demon then. Maybe two. 

It’s honestly embarrassing that Aziraphale had to be the one to notice them. With how well Crowley is acquainted with Hell, he really should know when other Demons are afoot. Perhaps being utterly sloshed all the time really does have its downsides. 

Any other time Crowley would just continue on his way. Typically lower level hardly thinking Demons are the ones roaming the surface. The type to get bored easily and never lasting long with a corporeal form. It would be easy enough to lose them by himself. 

But he isn’t by himself. He’s standing next to the largest light show of Grace in the entire city. Perhaps in the eternity of Rome. No wonder some have come to check it out. 

Before Crowley can even think that he should be thinking on what to do about the situation he’s pushing himself forward, completely on autopilot, into Aziraphale. (He really should call up management to find out if corporeal forms do have a tendency to move without instruction.)

A large awning hangs overhead the wall that Crowley finds himself pinning Aziraphale to. It masks them in just enough shadow that if he really thinks about it they’ll blend in nicely. But it isn’t enough to just look the part, it has to be enough to smoother the divinity, otherwise, Crowley would just guide Aziraphale into the shadows instead of what he is currently doing. 

They had bumped together once as Crowley pushed, chests brushing each other for a fraction of a second before the wall hit. Now the brush is back, held in place by Crowley’s hands bracketing Aziraphale by his arms. Chests, legs, even their noses brush. It takes just a moment for Crowley’s brain to catch up to his actions, but once he does he becomes hyper-aware of the situation. 

Two agents of Hell are prowling around Rome behind them, very close, and Crowley has decided one way or another that the best way to hide Aziraphale from them is to completely mold their bodies together. 

Aziraphale, for his part, looks horribly startled. Not afraid, which is a relief that lightens something deep in Crowley’s chest, but wrong-footed. The same way that you feel when you’ve walked down to your favorite ice cream shop only to find that they’ve closed for the day. Or when you open your mail to discover it’s actually your neighbors and now you’re reading a letter from their estranged child. Deeply confused and unsure of what to do next. 

At least, Crowley tells himself, Aziraphale doesn’t push him away. 

Perhaps he can tell what Crowley is trying to do, cover him so thoroughly that his own personal Demonic energy masks the Angelic. Or his own brain is much like Crowley’s at the moment, completely short-circuiting. 

This is as close as they have ever been. 

Crowley thought ducking under his wing was intimate, but that is only a small match next to his inferno of a forest fire. Their noses brush, just a slight touch, and goosebumps break out down Crowley’s arms. Breaths mix as they both let out soft sighs and Crowley can smell the drink Aziraphale had in the tavern. A sweet wine that tickles the tip of his tongue. 

Up close Crowley sees more than he ever has, even with all his staring. 

Like the way that Aziraphale eyes are blue, but not quite a human shade of it. Or how his lashes are long enough to cast small shadows as he looks up at Crowley. The set of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his curls slightly twist in against his temples. 

God, he is beautiful, Crowley thinks to himself. All Angels are Beautiful. It comes with the territory of divinity; God’s love shining through you until your outward appearance reflects that of her warmth. But few Angels are truly beautiful the way Aziraphale is. Physical form or otherwise. 

Crowley could stand here forever and count the individual light freckles that dot Aziraphale’s face, no doubt a side effect from all the sun. He could watch as the sun rises and sets just to see how the light lightens and deepens the blue in his eyes. Count every curl tenfold and then just once more to make sure it’s committed to memory. 

Aziraphale sticks his tongue out slightly, just enough to wet his lips, and Crowley suddenly feels the overwhelming need for a taste of him. 

Oh. Oh no. This isn’t good at all. 

Suddenly quite a few choices he’s made, quite recently in fact, make a lot more sense and he’s happy with none of these answers to questions he had not asked. Maybe God had something really going with the whole “don’t ask questions curiosity is bad” shebang. Maybe the apple was just best looking sweet and no one needed a taste anyway. 

Crowley hasn’t even been able to get a taste yet and he knows it’s the sweetest thing he could possibly imagine. 

As a Demon Crowley is not without his personal sins, so it’s easy to just add the fact that he subtly presses into Aziraphale just a hint more to the list. Just enough to really get a feel. To quench a thirst he had not known existed until moments ago. It has the opposite effect. Crowley has never been thirstier. 

Neither of them speak. A blessing and a curse. 

There are no words imaginable that could fill the little space between them and Crowley does not have to live with the knowledge of what the heat of Aziraphale’s speech feels like on his lips. 

In the back of his mind, some small unoccupied area that has to be reserved for things like breathing, existing, blinking, because the rest of completely taken up with Aziraphale, Crowley can feel the Demons leave. Their presence washes over him like a murky lake and then retreats as fast as the tide. Now knowing the ruse worked Crowley should pull away, but he finds himself craving the opposite. Push himself forward more and more until the lines between the two of them blur completely and they become something more than occult or Human. 

A gentle touch pulls him out of whatever the fuck kind of thinking that is, the softest amount of pressure right on his wrist. Where his pulse beats wildly, betraying what lies in his chest. 

Crowley blinks and looks down to see that Aziraphale has wrapped his fingers around Crowley’s right wrist. Not pulling or pushing him away. Just holding. 

“I do believe they’re gone now.” 

And Crowley is truly damned now because he will be thinking about how those words taste against his skin for the rest of eternity. 

He pulls back quickly as if the touch itself is Holy and burns him. It does, just not in the way his soles blister when wandering too close to a proper Church. His entire blood boils like the sea will when the end of the world arrives. If you were to cut him open you would find his veins filled with nothing but ash and longing. 

Aziraphale’s grip gives easy, hardly a grip at all. The extra space between them brings cooled air that stings with how fast it’s breathed in. Crowley clears his throat and manages to croak out a “right.” 

The Demonic danger has passed, but a new one has arrived in its place.

Time moves forward. They leave the spot on the wall, quiet filling the air between them where conversation once was. They sit together and eat oysters, Crowley perched on the chair opposite of Aziraphale. Aziraphale, as he had once before, reignites their talk, and Crowley has just enough sense to help continue it. He cannot look at Aziraphale directly though. Off to the side. Into his glass. Watching the way his robes swish as he gestures in the middle of a story.

Most of the eating is done by Aziraphale, but Crowley is just weak enough to take whatever portions he is offered. He does not take the offering from Aziraphale’s fingers, instead lets them be placed on his palm. And he most assuredly does not order the wine that Aziraphale assures him pairs best with the meal. 

Undeterred, Aziraphale offers a sip from his cup anyway, and Crowley is positive he is moments away from bursting into flames. 

An entirely new type of danger indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my tumblr](https://gayglitterqueen.tumblr.com/)


	3. golden eyed demon

**1495 Milan, Italy**

Life would be much easier if you could skip the messier parts, just sleep through what you don’t want to deal with and wake up when everything gets exciting instead of miserable. This is a sentiment shared by most humans and by Crowley. It hadn’t been an idea that Crowley came up with, no matter how much he likes to claim it, but it is one that he likes to take part in as one of the few beings on Earth that physically can. 

So, when life gets boring or humanity gets particularly taxing on him he likes to hunker down for a short nap and wake up to see if things have gotten better. 

On reflection, the Fourteenth Century would have been the perfect time to do that. Absolutely dreadful, the Fourteenth Century. Completely would have been worth it to just sleep through altogether. The only reason he hadn’t was a budding Arrangement and the fact that Hell wouldn’t stop sending him memos. Figures.

Just because of the Fourteenth Century, Crowley debated if he should sleep through this one or not. A toss of the coin and he decided to power through it on the promise that if the Fifteenth was just as bad he’d be skipping the next two altogether. 

That coin is now his lucky one because he would have been quite disappointed to wake up and find that he missed the budding of the Renaissance. 

It’s been great fun bouncing around from person to person, all creating things in the name of Humanity and the arts of all things. Curiosity has been on the rise and  _ oh  _ is he a fan of it. He’s met scientists and writers and artists and more people than he has in the past three hundred years. His visits are typically brief but nonetheless completely fascinating. If nothing else, Crowley has enjoyed watching this quick evolution in Human’s perspective on life. 

So far this is most likely one of his favorite periods of human history, at least top ten. Which he completely deserves after last century. Maybe with a bit of luck, it’ll keep up for another one or two.

Out of all the creators, artists are his favorite to spend time with. The writers can be a little dreary, especially after a drink or two, and while Crowley does enjoy a good scientific debate that too can drag on. But there’s something about the artists that pull Crowley in headfirst. 

Perhaps that’s why he’s stayed with Leo as long as he has. 

He enjoys trying to guess which works will truly last the test of time and which are just a fleeting fad that will fade as the vibrancy of their paint does. If there was someone to gamble with on it, Crowley would love to place bets. Typically, though, artists don’t take fancy to you trying to reason out why their art may or may not live up to the standards they’ve imagined. 

Leo, though, Leo has been the most fun of all. 

Two months is the longest he’s ever stayed with a human and yet he still finds himself reluctant to leave the bed. He hadn’t known Leo was an artist until the morning after when he woke up to find him staring out the window intently, sketching in a notebook. Then he had shown Crowley one of his works and, convinced that he had found someone he was sure their talent matched their pride, the rest had come naturally. 

Now Crowley will have one more Renaissance man to cross off his list and the rough sketches packed away in a small bag to prove it. In the twenty-first century, the real Mona Lisa will sit upon his wall, personally signed, and he will remember mornings like this. 

Currently, Crowley is stretched out along the bed, basking in the morning sun as if perched on a lovely little rock. Though the way the mattress hugs him is much more comfortable than any rock he’s tried out in his snake form. Leo is nowhere to be seen, but that is to be expected. Crowley knows he’ll be back eventually, but for fucking, sketching, or maybe with an offering for a day out he isn’t sure. For now, he enjoys the peace. The window above the bed is slightly open so he can hear the birds singing and the faint noise of people outside. He’s content to spend the whole day here. 

He is supposed to head out soon to Venice and see what he can provoke between the Italians and the French, but he’s decided to put that off for another day. From what he’s experienced of Humanity he figures that someone will piss someone else off and reignite the fighting and he can send down a nice little note to Hell about it claiming responsibility. It’s worked out for him before. 

So, instead of going around spreading chaos, he spends his days lounging and generally doing whatever he pleases. This sort of life suits him just fine and he’ll attempt to get away with it for as long as possible.

Just as he’s considering dozing off until the afternoon, a knock startles him fully awake. This isn’t entirely uncommon. The reason Leo, and by extension Crowley, is here is he’s been commissioned. They frequently get bothered by someone or other during the day and Crowley has quickly started to ignore the stream of people who go through. He’s sure that there are regulars, but he hasn’t bothered to learn their names or faces. 

A quick thought of being left alone typically sends them away, but instead, another knock follows. 

Crowley frowns and shuts his eyes tight, hoping sleep will claim him before he has to actually talk to anyone. And this was turning out to be such a good morning too. 

The soft sound of people outside the door talking can just be heard before the familiar creak of the wooden door rings out interrupting the bird’s song. Too bad. She was just getting on tempo too. 

Humans can be so jumpy, so Crowley honestly has to debate for a moment if flashing a mouthful of too many sharp teeth would be too much at frightening whoever it is to flee. His other option is throwing his pillow at them, but he’s quite fond of the material of this one and is reluctant to let it go. Footsteps follow into the room and Crowley is just moments away from deciding when he hears a sharp intake of breath. 

Which, isn’t so shocking. Not everyone is as accepting of certain relationships as others, even though Crowley hardly sees the problem. A quick mind wipe and everything is fine, so Crowley prepares the miracle. 

And then he stops, hand halfway to a snap. It’s not a human in his room. No, the feeling isn’t quite right. If Crowley wasn’t so bone-dead relaxed he would probably have noticed it sooner.

“Aziraphale!” Just as it always seems to happen when Aziraphale is close, Crowley’s body reacts before his mind can think. So he has little chance to stop the broad grin breaking out from his face and the way his whole body jerks up into fully sitting up. 

The Angel is pointedly looking at the opposite direction of Crowley, up at a rough painting perched against the wall that will never see the light of day. 

At the sound of his name, Aziraphale quickly turns around, obviously a little more than startled. Oh, that’s a shame, he isn’t here to see Crowley. Aziraphale stares at him a moment, eyes fluttering all over him as if not sure where to focus before finally settling on Crowley’s face. If Crowley isn’t mistaken a soft dusting of pink brighten his face. “C- Crowley? What on- What are you doing here?” 

His eyes stray down for a moment before he snaps his gaze away completely, face turning a peculiar shade of cherry. 

It is in this moment that Crowley remembers he isn’t wearing any clothes and the blankets that had previously covered him are pooling rather low in his lap. Ah, well that explains the truly startled expression on Aziraphale’s face. Angelic purity and all. Makes the rest of them a bunch of stuck up prudes, but Crowley shouldn’t be too surprised that Aziraphale hasn’t fully escaped from that bit of perception.

With a quick thought Crowley miracles himself a comfortable pair of pants. Angels aren’t the only proper beings in existence and while Crowley half does it to put Aziraphale at ease the other half is for his own benefit. Demons can’t be modest, lust being a favorite sin in not only Humanity, but Crowley is, in fact, shy around those he currently isn’t bedding. Not that he can ever actually show it, he does have a reputation to keep up, so he makes sure to put a bit of extra swing in his hips as he gets up off the bed to make up for it. 

“Enjoying the  _ arts _ ,” Crowley drags out the S as he saunters closer to Aziraphale. The trees outside cast long shadows between them in the room. Crowley reaches up to pull back his hair away from his face, long curls are back in this century, as he continues, “among other things. You?” 

“Ah, yes,  _ other things _ ,” Aziraphale says with a distasteful sniff. “I can see that.”

“Lust is a sin, angel. Thought you of all people would know that.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth twists down in a horrid way and for a moment Crowley wonders if he’s been truly offended before he blinks and his mouth is set back in a straight line. “ _ Yes,  _ well. Forgive me if I’m not as acquainted with sin as you are.” 

“Ahh, you’re plenty acquainted. Spending so much time with a Demon tends to do that to you.” 

“It would seem so, but by the state of things you don’t seem any more close to virtues that come with spending time with an Angel.” 

As he says this Aziraphale glances down once more, expression twisting as if pained, to Crowley’s neck. In the back of his mind, he remembers the fact that it is most likely still littered with bruises. He shoves down the urge to miracle up a shirt.

“Virtues?” Crowley can’t help but smile as he stops, just a foot away from Aziraphale. “Never heard of ‘em.” 

“ _ Clearly _ .” 

“Are we going to discuss my sex life all day or did you come here for more than the conversation?” Typically Crowley wouldn’t be so blunt, he both hates and prefers the dance they do, but a warm bed is calling his name and Aziraphale won’t stop staring at his neck. 

Demons can blush, Crowley had figured that out several thousand years ago, but he isn’t too inclined to let anyone know. Especially Aziraphale. Who won’t tease him at the moment, but will undoubtedly never let it go ever. The lingering gaze on his skin threatens to turn it red. 

Aziraphale sputters a bit at the word sex, and yes it seems not even Earth can beat the prude out of Heaven, and has to take a deep breath to silence himself. “I am actually here for art. Checking in on a commission by Leonardo. We, ah Heaven that is, hopes it will be done soon and has requested I pop in for a look at it, among other things.” 

“Which one is it?” Crowley asks with his hip cocked and his arms crossed. “He’s got a few going on right now.” 

Back in the early millennia of knowing each other the first time they went out to eat they had gotten some fish with a side of lemon. Crowley, a fan of sour flavors had bitten into his, and Aziraphale for some reason had to do exactly the same. A tad too sour for him it turned out by the way his expression twisted and his lips puckered. Crowley had almost fallen to the ground laughing and it had taken many years for Aziraphale to try lemon again. 

At this moment he is making a face almost identical to that one. 

“So you’re familiar with his current works?” He asks with a clearly unhappy smile. Too tight at the edges. 

“Just the ones from the past couple of months.” Crowley tries to dismiss, but that only seems to pinch the crease between Aziraphale’s brows. Desperately he tries to change the subject. “Which painting is it?” 

“The, ahem, the one featuring the Last Supper.” 

Ah, Crowley is familiar with it. He had managed a peek at it a few weeks ago, pure curiosity driving him to do so, and had gotten a quick look at the still a draft painting. It isn’t close to accurate from what Crowley remembers, but artistic liberties and all that. Besides, when he tried to subtly nudge Leo in a more correct direction he had gotten banned from his work area for half a week and that was no fun at all. 

Part of Crowley wonders how much Hell truly knows of the goings-on of Earth. How much of their art features the divine and seems to celebrate it. Would they care? Would a quote-unquote  _ real  _ Demon tell them? Try to sabotage as much work as possible? 

He isn't sure. He doesn’t want to find out. 

“Well, between you and me,” Crowley has dropped his voice to a whisper and leans forward just enough to invade Aziraphale’s space more than is considered socially appropriate. “I wouldn’t hold my breath. Still just a sketch and all that. And just last week he had quite a fit about the whole thing, thinking of redoing it all from scratch. A blocking of the creative flow, I believe he called it. Almost threw the whole thing out.” 

Aziraphale does his best to subtly move back, but Crowley is too attuned to his every move to miss it and there’s nothing but wooden door behind him. He twiddles his fingers together and Crowley can’t help but see the way he’s looking just over Crowley’s shoulder instead of directly at him. 

“And it wouldn’t- it wouldn’t be a…  _ You  _ aren’t the one causing this creative block of sorts?” Aziraphale asks the question in the way someone does when they don’t want to offend you but know that it’s impossible not to. 

Maybe if Crowley weren’t so overwhelmingly fond of him he would be offended. Maybe if he wasn’t completely relaxed and calm by the nice circumstances of the last year. Or maybe it’s just that Crowley can’t blame him for asking the question at all. 

“Well, that is a rather rude question.” Crowley pouts because otherwise he’d grin and his teasing would be much more transparent. Aziraphale’s gaze finally flickers over to him, ready to defend himself. “But, if you must know, no. It’s not me. Just the messy workings of the human mind, I suppose.”

“Awfully busy things, those are,” Aziraphale mutters and nods, frowning as if the idea itself is tiring just to think about. “Well, I suppose I should still get a look at it anyway. If you could point me in the direction of the workshop-?” 

Suddenly the nice warm bed doesn’t sound as appealing anymore. Crowley has the distinct feeling that it would feel rather chilly compared to how warm he feels right now just standing close to Aziraphale. Which is a horribly sappy thing to think. He knows. But he’s been thinking those sort of things for hundreds of years and it’d be an impossible habit to try to kick now. 

It’s been nearly 140 years since the two of them have seen each other, and even though he’d never admit it out loud Crowley has missed Aziraphale. Ever since Rome each of their meetings has filled Crowley with a need to see him more and more. Not that he would ever tell Aziraphale this, instead forcing himself to be content with their chance-by meetings that happen every century or so. 

Rome had been the turning point from which there was no going back. 

So Crowley had decided to dive right in. 

This feeling that fills Crowley’s chest like an overflowing bucket and warms him the way no sun-filled afternoon nap could is not love. Humans feel love, Angels feel love, even some Demons feel a sort of love, but Crowley does not. Not for other beings anyway. He loves things. Loving things is safe and easy. 

No, he prefers to think of the feeling that Aziraphale causes as fondness. Companionship maybe. Contentedness. Not love, never ever love. 

It only happens when Aziraphale is near and it’s been happening much longer than Rome, but now it is something he has to live with the knowledge of. It is what drives him to keep an ear out for any sign Aziraphale might be in whatever area Crowley happens to reside in at the moment. It is what keeps him from alerting Hell to Aziraphale’s true moves and motives, instead concocting elaborate lies in his memos that protect the both of them. 

Currently, it is what is propelling his feet forward until they’re inches apart. He can’t bring himself to step closer because if he does he may never stop. 

Damn yearning, a useless feeling in the grand scheme of things. 

Aziraphale’s eyes widen at their closeness. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breaths just over a whisper, “your eyes- I hadn’t noticed you…”

It’s like Crowley is dreaming as Aziraphale slowly reaches up, brushes the tips of his fingers against Crowley’s temple. Just a hint of a touch. Everything feels like it’s moving through molasses and suddenly there’s not enough air in the whole world. Every nerve that has been jam-packed into this form is alight. 

Somehow Crowley jerks both back and forward at the same time. 

He needs to step back. As far back as possible. The other side of the room. The other side of Italy. The world. He knows he needs to do this if he has any chance of surviving this encounter any longer. But a larger part of him begs to lean into the touch. Step forward and have Aziraphale cup his face, lose himself in the feeling completely. This results in his head moving back but his feet continuing forward. Now his bare toes press against Aziraphale’s shoes and this is as close as they’ve been since Rome. 

At the moment Crowley’s eyes are brown, a rather murky shade as far from gold as he can imagine. As human as possible. And Aziraphale is staring at them. 

“ _ Djk _ .” Is all Crowley can say at first. “It- It’s just something. I do. Around humans. When I- y’know.” 

His hands wave around in a half gesture at the room around him and he’s overcome with the need to take all the evidence he’s been here for any amount of time and shove it under the bed. Or in a closet. Not that it would do much good, Aziraphale is already plenty familiar with what Crowley is doing here. Silently, Crowley curses his 5-minute ago self. 

Technically he could change his eyes whenever he wanted. He doesn’t strictly need his sunglasses, but it is a preference. Unfortunately, it’s hard to get away with wearing them while fucking and most humans react poorly to his natural eyes. He’s been changing his eyes for human lovers for centuries. 

This is the first time Aziraphale has ever seen them like this. 

“Hmm.” Is all the response he gets before Aziraphale returns his touch to Crowley’s temple, undeterred from whatever task he’s decided on. 

Crowley may burst into flames soon, he isn’t too sure. 

It’s his thumb this time, tracing a small path from Crowley’s hairline to the edge of his eye as the pad of it moves. Crowley’s gaze tries to dart to the side to see it, but it’s too blurry. Aziraphale is still watching his eyes far too intently. This is the closest he’s ever felt to another being and he prays to something that the moment never ends. 

“S’not something I do often.” Crowley has no idea why he offers this piece of information.

“I see.”

“Just… well, you know. Like how the glasses look, but not always… practical.”

Crowley swears, not that it means much from a Demon, that on the last word Aziraphale’s stare flickers to his lips for half a second. Instinctively he sucks the bottom one into his mouth to chew. 

“Of course.”

“I don’t believe you’re paying attention, angel.”

“Oh,  _ I am.”  _ And what the fuck does that mean. “It’s just rather shocking, I suppose. The way it’s…”

“Better than the original?” A smile so bitter he can taste it sour his tongue creeps onto his face. 

The back and forth of Aziraphale’s thumb stops and he’s so close to cupping Crowley’s face he may cry. 

“What? I only-“ Aziraphale frowns and Crowley braces himself and the door beside them swings open. 

“Excuse me-  _ oh I’m so sorry-“  _ a young servant with eyes the size of dinner plates stumbles back out of the door, only just stopping it from slamming it in his own face. “I- I’m looking for Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale’s hand drops and Crowley lets himself swing back to an appropriate distance. His face is still tingling and his heart has dropped into his stomach. Aziraphale straightens his collar, no doubt giving the servant even more of the wrong idea. 

“Ah, yes. That would be me.” Damn him for sounding so put together. 

“I, um, you wanted to see-“

“He’s ready? Wonderful. If you’ll be so kind as to show me the way.” Aziraphale’s smile is warm in the way a familiar bed shared with a loved one is. It calms the boy immediately and something dark in Crowley flairs up. 

He’s a horrible hypocrite. 

As Aziraphale begins to walk out he pauses just out of the door and turns to point his smile at Crowley. Immediately the dark feeling vanishes and so does every thought Crowley has ever had. 

“Oh, and Crowley?”

He can only manage a strangle choke in the pitch of a question. 

“I do so prefer the original. I hope they’re back the next time we see each other.” And he’s gone down the hall. All Crowley can hear is the faint sound of Aziraphale humming as he goes and Crowley’s own heartbeat in his ears. 

Promptly he shuts the door, turns around, shoves his head into his pillow, and screams. 

The next day Crowley is all packed, leaving Leo with a kiss and Milan without so much of a farewell. He thinks of heading further south out of Italy completely, running from thoughts that nip at his heels with every step. There is no escape, but there are distractions. 

Next time he and Aziraphale meet he has a pair of dark shades covering golden eyes, and once more Aziraphale smiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my tumblr](https://gayglitterqueen.tumblr.com/)   
> 


	4. the inherent witchcraft of miracles

**1542, England**

Throughout human history, there have been groups of humans that Crowley has favored over others. Some for work, such as taking a side in a historic disagreement, others are more personal. A particularly favorite Human group of Crowley’s are those that practice magic. Witches, druids, sorcerers, divinators, whatever you wish to call them. They’ve always brought out a soft spot in Crowley.

In fact, he had spent a great deal of time with the Druids, becoming well known in the community (if that was a good or bad thing depended on who you asked). He could’ve stayed there even longer if not for all that St. Patrick nonsense. He still doesn’t like going back to Ireland. Historians debate if the snakes that St. Patrick chased from Ireland weren’t, in fact, a way to politely say run the Druids out of their home. Crowley is the only one to hold the knowledge that the saying is both literal and figurative as when Crowley was forced out the Druids were forced to follow. 

So everyone is a little wrong and a little right, just the way Crowley prefers it to be. 

If you were to ask Crowley why he appreciated those who use magic he would say the act of doing magic is a form of rebellion. 

Magic clearly exists as Crowley can snap his fingers and will things into existence, which seems to fall into several human definitions of magic. But Angels and Demons are  _ supposed  _ to have magic, as God is supposed to have knowledge. Humans weren’t meant to have knowledge, but they took it (with a push in the right direction) and Crowley is confident that magic is supposed to be a divine trait. 

At least, he’s pretty sure since the Human reaction to it seems to be a cry of the supernatural and death following.

Crowley can really appreciate reaching out and taking something not meant for you and making it your own. Sure, Humans can’t snap their fingers and perform a miracle, but they have spells and tricks and all sorts of workarounds that not Heaven nor Hell could have ever thought up. 

There’s a real mix of artistry and fuck-you to behind it that Crowley can get behind. 

Which is why Crowley has spent the past several decades traveling from village to village in search of witches as a witchfinder. In his official reports, he’s doing it to spread fear and hatred in Humanity, but that’s the last thing on his mind. The small group of Human witchfinders that follow him at his heels are completely for looks. If Hell takes a look they’ll see it looking like he’s actually doing what he’s reported, and if Humans take a look they see a practiced witchfinder keeping them safe. 

This is entirely wrong on all accounts. Crowley wears the lie of witchfinder easy, but he doesn’t find them to bring them to justice or whatever the fuck the Humans think they’re doing. No, instead he picks up on rumors and latches on to as many as he can before anyone else and sets out. He then arrives at the village in secret to warn whoever is being accused of their situation before the mobs can arrive. 

He’s managed to spare the lives of a few dozen, but nowhere near the amount of those lost. 

At least it’s something, Crowley tells himself each time he has to trudge up a muddy hill to whatever cottage is a point of gossip. 

Sometimes he doesn’t get there in time. Other times the rumor is just that, and he has to make the choice if he can risk Hell raising an eyebrow at the number of miracles he’s pulled off recently to save an innocent life. Those who are truly witches that he does manage before the Humans get to them, that’s what drives him to keep doing it. 

Typically he hides the women until the storm has passed, claiming to have had to fought her off or that she ran away and now he must venture into the woods to find her and, no, you really shouldn’t come with him it’s far too dangerous  _ trust him he’s got this.  _ Then he takes her as far away from the village as possible, usually out of the country, and gets a handful of spells as thanks. Other times he makes it fast enough that he can whoever is being accused can plan a rather clever ruse using actual magic to fool everyone. 

Crowley really does find it much more fun to do the fooling bit, but beggars can’t be choosers. 

A week ago he had gotten a letter claiming that a man was going to be accused of witchcraft in a village down south close to the sea. Which had grabbed Crowley’s attention by itself, but he had immediately set out after reading the description of the one all the fuss was being made about. 

Blond almost unnaturally white hair, healing sick children with a wave of his hand, and rather fond of books written in languages centuries-old and now completely unrecognizable. 

Out of all the Angels in existence, why does Crowley’s have to have such a lack of subtlety? 

It had been endearing at first, much like everything about Aziraphale is. The way that he would show off miracles no matter who was around, giving them out like it was just another part of his job description instead of a show of divine power that Heaven really should want to keep under wraps. Just another thing Crowley appreciates about him. But nowadays humans don’t go wide-eyed appreciative at miracles like they used to, instead, they get wide-eyed and shouting for a pile of burning wood. Maybe a good drowning. Depends on the town really. 

And so now it’s a problem. Crowley’s problem specifically. 

Now technically he has no proof that Aziraphale is the strange man in the cottage the town people are shouting at him about. Could theoretically be anyone, but Crowley has a hell of a hunch. 

So here he stands, at the bottom of another somehow muddy hill, with a small but fervent crowd of people demanding he march up there and arrest the one responsible for bringing the Devil to their village. How dare he cure their children, make their lives better, and speak in more than one tongue (Crowley had warned Aziraphale that knowing multiple languages wouldn’t be as appreciated this century). 

Ah, if only they knew. 

“Good people,” Crowley speaks up over the growing voices and holds back an eye-roll.  _ Good people my arse.  _ “I have heard your pleas, but thus far no tests have been conducted. You accuse the man in that cottage of witchcraft, but I must see it for my own eyes before any punishment may be dueled out.” 

It takes all his self-control not to gag on the words, but it calms the crowd as intended. Honestly, the more people gathered the lower their intelligence dropped. If it was one on one it would be more likely his disgust for the whole situation would be obvious. 

Damn Aziraphale for dragging him out here. 

“Sir Crowley, are you sure you can handle this on your own?” One of his men, Isacc, pipes up from the edge of the crowd. He’s young and stout and far too zealous a believer in God for Crowley’s tastes. But he is naive and loyal to a fault so Crowley brings him along.

In moments like these Crowley wishes he hadn’t, because if anyone is most likely to get in his way today it’s him. 

“Are you doubting my ability?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow over his dark glasses. Isaac squirms slightly as if sensing the serpent gaze on him. “Even if the man up there has been dealing with the Devil he is no match for me.” 

_ Gag. _

The crowd now sated, Crowley begins his walk up to the cottage. With each footfall on the stone path, he can feel all eyes on his back. He hopes they aren’t expecting a particularly big show or anything, he’s mostly banking on wiping everyone’s mind of Aziraphale. 

If it is him. 

It is him. 

Crowley can feel it. In the beginning, it was just the feeling of  _ grace _ and  _ divinity  _ and Crowley had made an educated guess of who was nearby. But it’s been thousands of years, Aziraphale’s power has a flavor to it that can only belong to him. Crowley could recognize it anywhere in any form. It calls to him the closer he gets, begging to fill up the space where Crowley is vacant. 

It’s been several decades since they’ve seen each other and maybe Crowley has missed him just a bit. 

The cottage stands out in the way that a person does after being told to act natural. Technically it doesn’t look out of place in the village, but the air around it suggests something is not quite right. That it wasn’t once here and then one day it was, not quite fitting in with the rest of the puzzle pieces. No wonder it set the Humans off. 

Crowley knocks on the door once, twice, before he hears the grumbles that are definitely Aziraphale. 

“Coming, coming!” Aziraphale calls from inside, followed by a soft crash. “I swear, not a moment's peace around here…” 

It would be quite juvenile for Crowley to consider how he should look when Aziraphale opens the door. If he should lean against the frame casually, a small smirk on his face, or if he should look more prim and proper to tease him about this whole predicament. It would be ridiculous for any of this to matter to Crowley. He would be acting much more like a young boy attempting to gather the attention of his first love rather than thousands year old Demon he is. 

Unfortunately, when he’s around Aziraphale he has more in common with a tongue-tied fool than a sly Demon, but he does well to hide it. 

So, while Aziraphale walks up to the door Crowley has a momentary panic about the whole thing. By the time Aziraphale has opened it Crowley has decided leaning is the best choice and smoothed any and all worry from his face with ease. 

“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m not taking any visitors today-” Aziraphale has already started before he’s even opened the door, ready to shoo away whoever he expects to be standing at his doorstep. 

“Yes, I’d imagine you’d be quite busy with all the Devil consorting you’ve gotten up to.” Crowley grins and Aziraphale’s sentence dies off. “I’m hurt, angel, I thought I was the only Demon you snuck around with.” 

“Crowley!” If it is only in his mind that Aziraphale brightens when they come face to face then he doesn’t want to know the reality. Instead, he basks in the glow of Aziraphale’s smile for as short-lived as it is. “Wait, excuse me?” 

“I’ve heard  _ rumors _ ,” Crowley drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “that you’ve been making deals with the Devil. Talking with Demons to perform magic on the people of this village. Thought I’d come to take a look and see for myself because I know that I’m not the Demon people have claimed to see you with.” 

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkles in confusion and Crowley takes a moment to admire how cute his expression is –  _ lovesick fool  _ – before something much more becoming of an Angel passes over his features. “Why of all the things I’ve ever – I can’t believe-!” 

“That the humans who have most certainly shown you they are terrified of magic right now accuse you of performing magic when you in fact have? Yes, how  _ dare _ .” Crowley’s grin widens and Aziraphale turns narrowed eyes to him. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Should’ve just taken a break from the whole miracles business like the rest of us. Thought you would have been expecting this at some point.” 

“Hm, yes, perhaps.” Aziraphale agrees, eyes still narrowed. Once upon a time, Crowley would have wondered just what that look meant, but he takes comfort in knowing Aziraphale so well now. “But I did think I had some more time, or perhaps the people of this village would  _ actually  _ be grateful for the miracles I’ve given them.” 

“Naive.” Crowley tuts. 

“Certainly not. It used to be like this, there’s no harm in hoping.” 

“Clearly there is or I wouldn’t be here.” 

“Ah, yes. Speaking of,  _ why  _ are you here? Dressed like… that.” Aziraphale gives a distasteful glance at his clothes and Crowley rolls his eyes. Sure, it isn’t his best outfit, but at least it’s leagues better than  _ village peasant.  _ Or fourteenth-century fashion, perish the thought. 

“Isn’t it obvious? The people of the village,” Crowley nods down the hill, “have called on me to burn you at the stake. You know, for your crimes against God or whatever.” 

Aziraphale presses his lips together in a flat, unimpressed look. “Well, if you’re meant to be acting as a witchfinder, you’re doing a shoddy job. Completely unbelievable, I’m afraid.” 

“Is that so?” Crowley hums, leaning in just a hair closer, lurking like a vampire waiting to be invited in. This whole witchfinder business has been a rather big headache, but at the moment he is enjoying himself. What a shame not all his cases could be Aziraphale. Now there’s a thought. 

“Indeed.” 

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I am actually a witchfinder. Now, did I steal this costume? Yes. But I do actually hunt witches and these people have actually hired me to do it.” 

Aziraphale pauses, taking in his earnest (as much as a Demon can be) expression before his eyes widen. “What are you doing as a witchfinder? I’m fairly certain in the eyes of the people you should be on the other side of this whole event.” 

“I have heard the witchfinders claiming to be men of God, but I’m confident I’ll be seeing them all in Hell in a few decades. So really, whos to say which side I should be working for?” Crowley has in fact already seen a few famous witch hunters in Hell on his most recent trip back. Bastards deserve it if you ask him. “Besides, I’m not  _ actually  _ working for them.” 

“Oh?” 

“Let me in and I’ll tell you. Been up to quite a bit the past decade.” 

Aziraphale purses his lips before relaxing into a small smile that Crowley instantly recognizes as the one reserved for him. He takes a step back and Crowley slips in. 

_ Temptation accomplished,  _ Crowley thinks with a private laugh.

If the outside of the cottage had an air of wrongness then the inside positively reeks of chaos. Mountains of books from all over the world are piled up on every surface available. Crowley thinks he sees several places to sit but those too are covered so he isn’t quite sure. There’s a desk tucked away next to a makeshift kitchen, which of course is not book free but at least it is also filled with dishes as expected. Crowley picks up a book and recognizes Old Chinese and well  _ no wonder _ the Humans were claiming him to be a witch! 

Crowley  _ tsks _ as he continues into the cottage, doing his best not to step on any papers because he knows that he can get away with a lot with Aziraphale, but damage to his books is not on that list. He leans against the desk, a stack of books pressing against his back, and glances down to see an unfinished letter abandoned on the table. 

“Interrupting something important, am I?” Crowley asks, squinting at the scribble on the letter trying to make sense of it. 

“Just taking care of some business.” Aziraphale waves him off and heads to the kitchen. “Care for a glass of wine? I have several that I’ve been saving for a good century.” 

“Better not. Now, any idea how long the townspeople believed you to be practicing sorcery?” 

“Oh goodness.” Aziraphale sighs and taps his fingers on the counter as he thinks. “Quite a while I’d imagine. About six months ago half the village children broke out in pox and, well, I just couldn’t sit here and do nothing about it. Especially when a group of healthy ones came knocking at my door about their siblings… Ever since then I’ve had people coming to my door for all sorts of things. 

“Thought I suppose Gabriel’s visit last week was a bit alarming.” Aziraphale scrunches his nose up and leans over the counter toward Crowley like he’s sharing a secret. “I’ve tried telling him that people aren’t fond of grand displays of Holy light and all that, but it doesn’t seem my memos got through. My entire house lit up like a bonfire and I’ve been getting stares ever since.”

“Well  _ yeah,  _ that would do it!” It’s a miracle in of itself the town hadn’t formed a mob that day. “You’re still getting visits from your head office?”

“You aren’t?”

“I never  _ did. _ ”

“Besides the point. Nothing happened so I assumed the Humans explained it away as they usually do. I hadn’t actually thought it would come to this.”

“Well, no need to fear.” Crowley grins and puffs up his chest rather dramatically. “I won’t let anyone discorporate you.”

“My hero,” Aziraphale says rather dryly and -  _ oh -  _ that has a rather nice ring to it if you ignore the tone. He circles around the counter and past Crowley until he’s standing in front of a bookshelf that takes up half the wall. He thumbs at the books. “I am afraid I have a very busy day planned, so I assume you have a plan of how to clear my name?”

“Ah, I got some ideas.”

“I would hope so. I suppose I should be grateful that it’s you they sent instead of an actual Human. What a headache that would-“

Aziraphale suddenly stops his sentence and lets his fingers hover over the books he was looking at. His brow furrows and he tilts his head as if listening. Crowley does too and - oh, footsteps against gravel. 

_ Fuck,  _ Crowley’s mind helpfully supplies. 

“Thought I’d have more time.” Crowley gives an apologetic look at Aziraphale. “Most likely anxious to make sure you haven’t turned me into a frog or whatever they think witches get up to nowadays.” 

“A frog?” 

“Well, I don’t know! Some of the accusations I’ve heard are particularly wild, could be anything at this point.” 

Aziraphale shoots him a dubious look that Crowley is very familiar with and he grins back automatically. “Well since you’re  _ not  _ a frog kindly make them go away.”

“Doing everyone’s dirty work today.”

“ _ Crowley! _ ”

“Alright, alright! Just give me a moment,” Crowley says, completely aware that they don’t have a moment. 

The footsteps have reached the cottage and Crowley’s mind is helpfully blank. If he would be honest he’d admit he was too excited about seeing Aziraphale again to work out the finer details of all this. 

“Oh for the love of-“ Aziraphale starts and then pauses. Crowley can practically see the idea forming in his head. 

“Angel?”

“Pin me against the wall.” Aziraphale breaths, turning to face him. 

Angels and Demons don’t age even with their Human-like bodies, but Crowley is fairly certain that he’s found a symptom of a faulty body because hearing loss comes with age and there is no way that Aziraphale  _ actually said what Crowley thinks he said _ .

“Pardon?” Crowley sputters the word so bad it’s hardly a word at all. 

Aziraphale doesn’t explain again. Instead, he very quickly reaches forward, grabs Crowley by the wrists, and  _ yanks.  _

Crowley practically trips over a stack of rather heavy-looking hardbacks as he’s yanked forward into Aziraphale. His right hand meets scruffy book spines and his left is pressed into Aziraphale’s chest, both by very tight grips on his wrists. Crowley blinks. Assesses the situation. Blinks again. Tries to remember how to think. 

“ _ Press _ .” Aziraphale hisses through his teeth and Crowley automatically does. He’s still not quite sure what’s going on, but there has yet been a day where Crowley has denied Aziraphale something. 

They stand there, Crowley crowding Aziraphale into a stuffed bookshelf, mess spread around them. Underneath his fingers, Crowley can feel the aged paper of the books and the stiff fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt. He’s radiating heat and Crowley curls his fingers into a fist, pressing his knuckles down until he can imagine he’s touching skin instead of clothing. 

Hell may run hot, but Demons run cold. They find whatever source of heat they can and crowd into it until it goes out. At the moment, Crowley is struck with the need to do the same thing, leaning in more and more until he’s pressed flush against Aziraphale.

This century is fond of layers, but Crowley has been alive when there were so many layers you were more clothes than person. He is distinctly aware of how close he is to actually, properly touching Aziraphale. How in just a slightly different circumstances he would be able to run his fingers down Aziraphale’s chest, from the base of his throat down, exploring skin he hasn’t seen since he got a glimpse in the midst of the public baths in the later era of Rome. Chasing the warmth that Aziraphale radiates, hoping that if he holds long enough it will seep into him and he will never be cold again.

Rome had been the first time Crowley truly noticed Aziraphale’s beauty and it’s haunted him ever since. Ever since then he’s taken each meeting of theirs to notice and commit to memory something else beautiful about Aziraphale. So far he isn’t close to running out. 

But here, right now, Crowley is overwhelmed by it all. 

It is in this moment Crowley becomes unsure this is all happening and isn’t some fever dream put on by the magic of an actual wish. Or maybe he had fallen asleep a few months ago and had yet to realize. 

“ _ Look! _ ” A rather poorly concealed whisper rings out. Crowley doesn’t have to glance back to tell that it’s Isacc, stubborn bastard. Couldn’t have waited more than a minute, could he?

“Shh!” A different, unfamiliar voice hisses back. One of the townspeople? “What are they doing?”

“How long do you suppose we will have to stay here until they go?” Aziraphale asks so soft his lips hardly move as he speaks. 

As one does when they’re dissatisfied with their current life, Crowley spends lots of his time imagining. Imagining what it would be like to be Human, what it would be like to live outside of Hell’s death-grip, what it will be like in the next place he visits. He has imagined many things in his many centuries. 

Kissing Aziraphale is not one of these things. 

Not for a lack of want. Crowley carries the knowledge that he wishes to have Aziraphale in every way possible the same way he carries the knowledge that is is forever damned. As it is fact, branded onto his very soul. In his darkest nights he wants Aziraphale more than anything; more than salvation, more than peace, more than existence. 

But he does not allow himself to imagine having Aziraphale. 

For that would be, he knows, a line that he could not go back from. Crossing into a painful territory. And he’s already crossed so many for Aziraphale. 

_ Well, why not one more? _ He thinks because it is currently impossible to think of anything but kissing Aziraphale. 

If onlookers were not outside it would be so easy to just lean down. Only a handful of inches between them. Inches between whatever sort of relationship they have now into unimaginable territory. 

Aziraphale’s lips look soft. Dimly, Crowley wonders what it would be like to bite them. Not rough, with his sharper teeth, but rolling them between his more human-like ones. In a world where this is possible, there'd be no room for pain. 

What would he taste like? Crowley has tasted many kisses; wine-stained, smoke-infused, sour, sweet, bitter. 

Although, those were Humans. This is  _ Aziraphale.  _

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley blinks. 

But there are onlookers here, and even if they weren’t Crowley still wouldn’t be able to do it. Nothing about them is easy, especially about things like this. They could be alone, the only beings around for miles, and it could still never happen. 

Crowley begins to pull away and ignores the way Aziraphale’s fingers tighten around his wrist.  _ Couldn’t happen, couldn’t happen, couldn’t happen,  _ he reminds himself. 

“I have looked deep into your eyes, as I have many of those who have been accused. Windows to the soul, the Devil cannot hide in them. And I see no trace of Devil in you.” The words are only slightly monotone. He’s said this many times, in front of many crowds, but he only half hears him say it. “Your gift of healing has been bestowed by God and I shall tell the townspeople immediately.” 

“ _ Oh, _ ” Aziraphale says at the same time the Humans outside gasp. He can hear them hurry back down the hill, no doubt to spread the news, as he realizes that Aziraphale sounds just a touch disappointed. 

Aziraphale releases his wrist, dragging his fingers along Crowley’s hand in a way he honestly has no excuse for. 

“You know,” Crowley hates himself for how breathless he is at just a simple touch, “there are about a dozen other ways we could have gotten out of that situation.” 

He doesn’t know why he points it out. (He does.) They don’t point things like that out. They brush it under the rug and go on with their lives, both separate and together. But this feels different. The words push at the back of his throat until he’s forced to say them aloud. 

Aziraphale hums and straightens his collar. For a brief moment, Crowley gets a small flash of neck and his mouth goes completely dry. “I’m sure there are, but that was the only one I could think of in the moment.” 

It sounds like a lie. Angels don’t lie and Aziraphale doesn’t lie to Crowley (not about things that are important) but this rings with the unmistakable chime of a lie. Crowley’s heart and his stomach have flip-flopped and he suddenly wishes he was on the other end of the world. 

“Besides, it’s not like it’s the first time we’ve done it.” Aziraphale gives him a pointed look that means something but is completely lost on Crowley. 

Okay, maybe he doesn’t know Aziraphale as completely as he thought. 

“Becoming a habit, is it?” 

“Hard to say. Very well done, the acting bit there. I can see why the people believe you to be an excellent witchfinder.” 

Crowley shrugs and takes a step back, strangely uncomfortable with the rare praise Aziraphale is giving him. “Spend enough time around a certain group of people and anyone can figure out what they want to hear. S’not like it’s hard or anything. Humans can be… simple when in a large group.” 

“Well, either way, I’m still impressed.” Aziraphale continues and pushes himself off the wall. Crowley backs up, putting more space between them than necessary. “I don’t think I’m cut out for the witchfinder lifestyle. Or the village lifestyle, now that I think about it. Perhaps it’s time I move again.” 

“You could try London. Completely different atmosphere than ‘round here. Plus you could find a bigger place to store all your… this.” Crowley gestures around at the mess and Aziraphale pouts as if he can hear Crowley trying not to say how horribly disorganized it all is. “Bet I could help you find the right place since I’ve recently moved there.” 

“You have?” Aziraphale smiles and Crowley tells himself it’s perfectly fine that he has ulterior motives since he’s a Demon and is expected to have them. Crowley nods. “Then I must take a look. Perhaps you can give me a tour since it’s been several decades since I’ve been there. Heard they’ve changed a few things.” 

“Ah, human innovation.” Crowley sighs wistfully. “If you do come to town you should drop by. Shouldn’t be too hard to find me.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Crowley takes another look around the cottage, at how every corner is filled to the brim with Aziraphale’s presence. The light he emits has squeezed its way into every nook, leaving no room for shadows. Crowley walks to the door. 

Just for a second, he thinks of turning around for one last look, just to see Aziraphale once more before they’re separated for who knows how long. He can feel Aziraphale watching him and for a second he wishes that Aziraphale wants him to look back. That they want the same thing in all regards. But Crowley is not that deluded, enough to fall in love but not enough to expect it back. 

He leaves and heads down to the villagers, already ready with a story of what happened. 

In a day the cottage will be gone and so will all record of Witchfinder Crowley. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long. personal stuff. next chapter will be quicker
> 
> [my tumblr](https://gayglitterqueen.tumblr.com/)


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